Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (12 page)

“I am certain she knows Bormanstein, but not Madgwick; her unease was signalled by the momentary grammatical lapse into her normal uneducated idiom. Trust me, Watson, that young lady is deeply involved in this affair – perhaps well over her head.”

I smiled; I should know by now that when Holmes says or does something quite inexplicable, it is never without good point, and always calculated to confirm some suspicion he harbours. “But you have been deeply suspicious about that young lady for some time, Holmes. I confess I am somewhat puzzled.” We alighted at 221B.

As we climbed the stair at Baker Street a playful grin flashed across my friend’s gaunt face. “Of course you are puzzled dear fellow, and you have every right so to be! Because mischievously I have saved the most comical until last – an interesting little poser you may wish to ponder; an acquaintance of mine, Louis Lépine – the Deputy Prefect of police in the district of Fontainebleau – a most admirable fellow, replied to one of my telegraphic enquiries and intriguingly, his first-rate intelligence indicates that the last recorded member of the Amanti family – a frail old bachelor of over eighty, one Giuseppe Carlo Amanti – died of syphilis in 1878 in total penury in Naples with no issue, and rather curiously furthermore, it would appear there is no such place as Obânes St-Amarin to be found near La Rochelle or, indeed, very likely anywhere else in all of
la belle
France!” We entered the parlour and took our usual seats.

“Now what light may we shed on that curious report, Watson?” And with this he applied a vesta to a cigarette, leaned back in the most contented manner and smiled through a swirling cloud of fragrant smoke.

I have sometimes considered that Holmes’ personal passion for ever seeing society as a moral and intellectual battleground between good and evil, crime and punishment might perhaps, on occasion, obscure a simpler, more direct and less sinister explanation.

Now it may be my natural inclination to gallantry towards the distaff side, or perhaps my lack of that acuity which he possesses in such abundance, but in this matter I thought I could offer a more straightforward, logical and rather more charitable solution to this small domestic conundrum.

“Even were you correct, may it not be possible, Holmes, that here we are presented merely with an over-ambitious young lady who, to further her humble station in life, has deceitfully presented a reference from a supposed titled sponsor – reprehensible I agree, but not precisely actionable – and at least she appears to offer her employers the high standards of service they have been led to believe she acquired in her prior, perhaps fictional employment; Mrs Petch without reservation seems perfectly satisfied. Does that not serve as well or better than your more cynical, and menacing explanation? Should you not, perhaps let sleeping dogs lie when all parties seem content? I cannot in any event see how this woman can be central to the case in the slightest.”

“Nobility to the fore, as ever Watson, but should you wish to pursue your interest in my little mysteries, I fear you must hone the harder, more sceptical aspect of your analysis.” He stood and started to pace. “She certainly is a sleeping dog, and she certainly is lying. However, my own discreet research with The Yard informs me that the genteel lady’s maid, Dulcie Hobbs, is also well-known to them as Maggie Betts, sometime petty thief, pick-pocket, and barmaid at the Anchor Inn in Rotherhithe – I doubt we would enjoy its hospitality – prior to which she was Betty Belle, a dancer in an inconsequential vaudeville act of doubtful taste which performed under the unlikely name of ‘The Bow Belles’.

“She is rather more than a sleeping dog, Watson; I believe she is a viper in the bosom of the Petch household; a willing, paid instrument deliberately insinuated there by the organiser, the mastermind if you will, of this entire crime – and as such, I suspect she is our key link in the chain that will lead us to the very principal of the criminal gang!”

This revelation, allied to my own purblindness, left me speechless for some moments. I briefly recalled my thoughts when attempting to bring order to my chaotic dream of Christmas night...

...How I yearned to possess Holmes’ unique and mysterious analytical abilities; to be able to exercise that arcane skill only he can bring to bear in such problematical situations – the gift of sorting the players into their proper places – the prime suspects, their accomplices, unwitting assistants and lowly hired hands quite ignorant of the far greater and more sinister enterprise into which they had been gulled...

He continued “And that, my dear Watson, is why even now I have this rather ignoble young lady under continuous watch at her place of work in Richmond and at her room in Chiswick High Road, by two of the keener-eyed of my ‘irregulars’. They will report to me her comings and goings, and more importantly, who she visits, and who visits her, and thus shall we draw her patron into our web.”

Throughout this animated discourse Holmes continued to pace distractedly up and down the length of the worn old Turkey carpet, hands thrust deep in his pockets, angular jaw sunk on his chest. Abruptly he spun on his heel and fixed me with an intent stare, a fierce light gleaming in his cold eyes.

Quietly and slowly he said “Watson, understand that this crime was no mere speculative theft, perpetrated on impulse by a single man, overcome by a moment of weakness or greed. Indeed, I consider that the breath-taking scale, evident planning, organisation and sheer audacity of this business signals quite clearly that we face not a mere gang of opportunist thieves but a veritable nexus of organised criminality, presided over by a most dangerous, gifted and cunning adversary. I advise you now of these matters not to alarm you, Watson, but to counsel you that as the most valued and stalwart aide a man might ever hope to join with, and also in consideration of your new matrimonial estate, this business will likely lead us into considerable danger – perhaps even into mortal peril.

“That is an occasional risk which I, as a singleton, am happy to take; you, dear friend, might perhaps be advised to observe and record matters from a more distant and detached position. Your situation is now such that I would not wish you to be utterly careless of your own safety.”

He paused, perhaps to let the implications of this chilling statement become clear.

It seemed to me that he could be referencing only one man – the self-same he had once described as
‘the single most dangerous man in London’
. Holmes had previously told me he been moved to research this shadowy individual after he conceived the notion that numerous of the crimes he encountered were perhaps not necessarily the spontaneous and disconnected efforts of casual criminals, but rather, the interlinked and highly orchestrated manoeuvrings of a vast and subtle criminal network.

“You refer, I presume, to Professor Moriarty, Holmes?”

“A logical guess, Watson, and I confess that that too was my first instinct the moment I began to grasp the sheer dimension of the criminal talents that have been so precisely coordinated and deployed in the execution of this impudent crime.

“However, I am persuaded that he is not the direct instigator of this business; I have received a further telegram from M. Louis Lépine – and his invariably trustworthy intelligence is that he currently has Moriarty under the closest observation in a small pension in a seamy outskirt of Fontainebleau, where he appears to be recruiting relatively low-level felons for a planned jewel robbery in central Paris.

“His mail and telegraphs are all intercepted, his visitors noted, and the most capable Lépine assures me that had any reference to our present case surfaced he would have been aware of it immediately. Nonetheless, Watson, your instincts are fundamentally sound; and Moriarty certainly is more than adequately blessed by genes, nature and nurture to be the architect of a crime on this scale.”

“I am well aware, Holmes, that you have taken rather more than a passing interest in this evil man and his gang; it appears to me that you rate him as your equal on the dark side?”

“I do, Watson. He is well-born and of excellent education, gifted with an unparalleled facility for mathematics, and once had contemplated what seemed to all to be assured – a most brilliant academic career lying before him. But he became a most ignoble blot on his family’s escutcheon – the man soon revealed an inbred disposition of a most devilish sort. A cruel strain of amoral criminality ran in his veins, and it became ever more dangerous, thanks to his remarkable intellect.

“He is in my estimation, the complete Machiavelli of crime – the evil overlord of a criminal hegemony that controls much that is wicked, and almost all of that insidious villainy that passes undetected with impunity in this great metropolis. I must reluctantly concede that he is nothing less than a criminal prodigy, and undoubtedly a genius in his field.

“Even so, I would one day still much relish to go right to the very brink of the abyss if necessary against such a gifted criminal as Moriarty; my continuing existence is Watson, make no doubt of it, a considerable inconvenience to the dark endeavours of Professor Moriarty...”

(Only a few short years later would I realise how chillingly prescient were his words
‘to the very brink of the abyss’
that day.)

Holmes concluded “...but in view of his virtual incarceration under Lépine’s vigilant eye, I am confident that while he probably had oversight of a crime of this scale, and certainly has the means to fund such an enterprise, it is more likely to have been implemented by one of his anonymous and shadowy inner circle of strong-arm lieutenants recruited expressly for their low cunning, utter mercilessness and bizarrely perverted loyalty.

“Be good enough to pass my index of criminal biographies.” I retrieved the appropriate binder from the collection in which Holmes retained that information which would aid him in his cases; he flipped through the pages and found what he sought.

“Here we are Watson; you may choose any of these charming folk. Our quarry might – I only say might – be any or none of them; it is a list of my own compiling of those I suspect of having been associated with Professor Moriarty since I began to take a close interest in his affairs.” He commenced to read aloud:

“Henry Witham, undertaker to the gentry, of Shoe Lane, thought, but never proved, illicitly to have disposed of the bodies of Doctor Daniel Rawlins and The Reverend Erasmus Dawkins.

“Sebastian Moran, Eton and Oxford, Colonel late of the First Bangalore Pioneers, lives in Conduit Street, plays cards at the Tankerville and Bagatelle Card Clubs – a crack shot, thought to be Moriarty’s hired assassin and the executioner of Mrs Stewart of Lauder two years ago.

“Sir Aston Cunninghame, Harrow and Cambridge, of Lambourne, moderately successful racehorse owner, high-society socialite and confidence trickster, thought to be a fund-raiser for Moriarty’s crime syndicate.

“Obadiah Jenkins of Turnham Green, pawnbroker and London assayer, thought to handle stolen goods for Moriarty, especially gold, gems and securities.

“Edward Palmer, printer of Turnham Green, suspected of being behind the great land-sale fraud in Arizona; he produced and sold to the gullible, certificates giving them all title to the same tract of quite useless land which he neglected to mention was several hundred miles from water.

“Benjamin Wilkes of Gerard Street, noted watch and clock-maker, rumoured to have masterminded the platinum robbery at Albion & Co of Hatton Garden.

“And here we have William Jarman, a respectable metal fabricator and steel-worker by day, and by night a cat-burglar and safe-cracker.

“Finally, I list the most unsavoury of all,
Lieutenant-Colonel Roland Chatsworth, retired
– cashiered actually – and also that most squalid and despicable of miscreants –
a thief of other peoples’ secrets and a blackmailer.

“As I say, Watson, you may take your pick! I am convinced that all these men work for or with Moriarty, and all pay tithes to him.” Villainous as they sounded, it seemed to me that his list of miscreants did not seem so promising; with Moriarty apparently under such close surveillance, I could envision few of these confederates who might have masterminded the theft of the plates of The Bank of England. I looked dubiously at Holmes. “I agree they sound a most unsavoury lot, but I cannot see that an undertaker, an ex-Indian army big-game hunter or a Lambourne racehorse owner is especially qualified for the commission of this crime, less still a cashiered Colonel who exists by blackmail; but perhaps the dealer in stolen securities, the cat-burglar or the watch and clock maker-turned precious metal robber...?”

“I have an early notion Watson, but at this stage it is, perhaps, founded upon a coincidence and I have told you how deeply I mistrust them! Coincidence is very often a feeble vindication for two strikingly similar data for which everyman is unable to perceive an explanation” and he resumed his pacing. I had listened attentively to Holmes’ discourse, the lengthiest I had yet heard him deliver of the sinister Professor Moriarty and his gang; and from his precisely chosen words I realised with a thrill of fearful exhilaration, tempered with that caution natural to any recently-married man, that should we pursue this investigation full-course we might well face mortal hazard once again.

And yet at that instant I already knew that I would without hesitation join with my friend to the end of this adventure, for better or worse, wherever it might finish.

*        *       *

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Mist Thins

Unsurprisingly, after talking well into the night, I slept somewhat later than usual next morning; I clearly longer than Holmes, which I observed from his evident early departure and the cold remains of a meagre breakfast – occasioned no doubt by that unfeasibly feverish state in which he habitually existed when scenting the spoor of his quarry – the exact opposite of the dismal, self-pitying, condition of lethargy and ennui that invariably overtook him when he lacked the stimulus of a case to kindle his excitement and mental powers.